What I Remember
by thatTWWgirl
Summary: Donna's son reflects on the male influence in his life.


**A/N: Hi there! I'm thatTWWgirl, and this is just a little fic that sort of crept up on me. **

**Description: Donna's son reflects on the male influence in his life.**

**Reviews: It'd sure be nice :)**

**Disclaimer: These characters are heart-wrenchingly, tragically, soul-shatteringly not mine.**

**I hope you like it!**

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I don't remember much about my father.

You could say that he wasn't a big part of my life. In fact, I lost nearly all contact with him by the time I was in middle school. But honestly? It never really bothered me.

My father wasn't the nicest guy. What I remember of my youth is infrequent visits in which he ruffled my hair and perhaps handed me a baseball or a candy bar; I remember my mother standing taut and tight-lipped behind him, watching carefully. I remember the air of guilt that clung to him like cigarette smoke. You'd get the impression that his guilt was the only reason he came.

I think he considered us something of a burden.

Which is, of course, preposterous.

My mother is, hands-down, the nicest person on the planet. Her smile chases away rain clouds, her hugs knock the wind out of you in the best kind of way, and I don't think a day has gone by that she hasn't put other people's needs in front of her own. And so when I tell you that I think I was a burden to her, know that she would never agree with this statement. She'd swear up and down that I was a blessing in every way, shape, and form, that I was the best thing that ever happened to her and that she loves me more than all the stars in the sky.

But I was a burden to her.

I was, as other kids would frequently tease me once we reached a certain age, an accident. I was never meant to happen. I was bestowed upon my mother at a time when she was working long hours at a demanding job, hardly making ends meet as it was. I was the result of a relationship that ended quickly thereafter. She was in no position to have a child at that stage in her life.

But she did.

My mother is self-sacrificing that way.

The air of youth hung onto my mother as she navigated our lives alone, it drew the unwelcome gazes of men who thought she might just be the nanny, it elicited disdainful scowls from the other mothers in their tight-knit group.

None of this phased her; at least, she'd never let me see that it did. She was brave, and determined, and too damn busy to be bothered with the judgement of others.

I don't remember my father much. But I know that my mother loathed him.

She loathed him for robbing her of the life she never got to live, the life she should've been living. As women her age went clubbing, she sprinted from work to daycare and back again, hardly a moment of thought to spare for her own sake. She loathed him for not making the same sacrifices. She loathed him for his success; and yet, she wouldn't take a dime of his money.

She didn't want to need him, so she didn't. My mother is a force of nature that way.

He was older than she was. I remember one birthday, he crouched beside my tiny form, his hands on my shoulders as he told me that I was becoming quite the man. I had no earthly idea what he was talking about; I was becoming no such thing.

He wore a nice suit. I remember that. He always did. I doubt his job demanded it, and the only thing it seemed to do for him was flaunt his success.

He didn't really play with me; though I doubt this can be attributed entirely to his age. I'll tell you, my youthful, beautiful mother played with me relentlessly. Even after her longest work day, we'd play tag in her tiny apartment and laugh or do toys for which she made the sound effects, and on weekends she'd take me to the park and prove that "throwing like a girl" was in no way an insult.

He never played with me. But I don't think I ever asked him to.

He was uncomfortable around us, to say the least. He tried in vain to make small talk with my mother, a half-hearted smirk on his face as he made bad jokes. She met him with nothing but frigidity.

I don't remember much about my father. Or, as I've affectionately termed him, my "birth father". Not my real father. Just the one who threw DNA into my mother and left her to deal with the consequences.

A far better man than he tells me not to worry about it. That it's not me, the reason my father is never around. It's him. _It's all him._ You have no idea how long it took me to believe that.

This man holds back thinly veiled contempt for my father, even as a toddler I could sense it. As my mother stood taut and thin-lipped behind my father, more often than not he was beside her, arms crossed and jaw set. I could see the hatred in his eyes.

This man was there a lot more often than my father was. In fact, he was in my life and around my mother so often that I think he's in a couple of refrigerator drawings. I don't know, you'd have to ask mom.

He's been there as long as I can remember. It may sound like a sad life for a child, but believe me when I tell you that growing up in my mother's office really wasn't half bad. My mother never hired a nanny; she will tell you that this is because she didn't want someone else to raise her child. I think a part of it was that all those long hours still wouldn't pay for one.

But like I said, it wasn't that bad. My earliest months were spent in a crib in a cubicle, or so I've been told, and from then on, I was toddling around the building like I belonged there. After all, with my mother's crazy hours, day care only stretched half the work day. It was with trepidation and embarrassment that she attempted to keep me in one place, telling me to be quiet and not bother anyone, "these people are very important". The very important people, however, didn't seem to mind me one bit.

He was fun to watch. I've been told that some people find his madness a little intimidating, especially those guys "who lived in a hill, like elves!" as my mother would explain to me; however, I grew up on his craze. He would practically run through the building, shouting and breaking things and trying (mostly successfully) not to trip on me. The words he exchanged with my mother were rapid-fire and impossible to follow, but as a little kid they delighted me to no end. He delighted me to no end.

The others fawned over me as well, a gentler man oftentimes taking me into another part of the building to sit on his knee as he spoke to the scary guy with a beard. Even he would give me a smile on occasion.

The tall lady ("Peter, for the millionth time, don't call her that!") was good fun too, taking me for walks and letting me answer her phone. As I'd later learn, I was very accomplished at sidetracking reporters all over the country.

But he was my favorite. Whether bellowing my mother's name, using language that made her cover my ears and scold him, or dangling me by one ankle as I laughed like a gremlin ("Put him _down_!"), he was the best friend a kid could hope for. He taught me how to play baseball with those balls my father gave me, so that I'd quit glaring at them. He made my mother smile like no one else could.

I remember him quite well.

I remember that when nights at the office stretched too long, he'd come home with us. Maybe they worked for a while, but what's most vivid to me is the three of us eating pizza, and then retiring to the living room to watch whatever I picked. That is, until I fell asleep, and they put on something that wasn't animated. I remember the way he held my mother.

I remember him picking me up from preschool one day, how I'd been inexplicably proud. _Guys, look! That's him. He's here for me! _He's here for me.

I remember that he used to give me money. Not large sums of it, just enough to buy an ice cream or the new toy I'd been begging my mother for. He'd slip it to me with a conspiratorial smile, a "don't tell your mom", and at the time I'd wondered why he wanted to hide how nice he was.

I remember a night that my mother wore red, and I'd sat on his desk for a while, between him and another suited man, coloring absently. He'd spoken sharply to her before she left.

That happened sometimes.

I remember flowers on her desk, the two of them arguing as I drifted off in Sam's arms. When I woke up on the way out to the car, they were both glowing like traffic lights.

I remember him following her room to room, ranting about "Dr. Freeride" ("You shouldn't let him hang around your kid, Donna, after how he treated you?"). When I'd found out who this nickname was reserved for, I'd started to use it too. The first time, my mother had tried to be angry, but had ended up smiling.

I remember nights that his visits had been late and unplanned, the shouting in the hallways (his), and the hushed voice telling him not to wake Peter (hers). On one such occasion, I was getting too old to sleep through it, so I padded out into the living room. At the sight of him, I ran and jumped into his arms.

After the slightest stagger, he hugged me back. "Hey, little man."

My mother glared at him dangerously. "Put him down."

He did no such thing. He carried me to the sofa, and sat with me on his lap. He gazed up at her earnestly, softly tousling my hair. I could hear his slow breath.

"He could be mine, ya know."

That made her falter. Her brow furrowed. "He... What?"

"Both of you. You could both be mine."

And it was then that she'd told him that this could wait until morning, and I was carted off to bed. He slept on the couch, and by the time we left for school, they'd been smiling over coffee.

I guess they had talked about it that morning, because soon enough, he was there every night. There was little talk of work during these times, and the visits weren't wildly late at night, either.

My mother's hours shortened considerably, then.

The first time I saw them kiss, it was utterly natural. I mean, I covered my eyes in disgust, of course, but it was a mere reflex of age. I turned away in the same way every little boy turns from his parents' affection. They looked happy.

The kisses increased in frequency, as did hand-holding, lingering touches, that constant contact of the deeply in love.

There were nights that they'd go out by themselves, and I knew it wasn't to work late because they would've brought me with them. And it wasn't a special event, because either Sam or Tall Lady watched me, and they're pretty important. Sometimes, I'd even spend the night.

I didn't mind any of this, the affection, the nights with my adult pals, any of it. So long as he kept being around us so often. So long as my mother continued to look happier than I'd ever seen her before.

She did.

We moved shortly thereafter. I didn't think of it as "moving in with him", because in my mind, he'd already lived with us. We were all moving into this bigger and vaguely familiar place, together.

I made drawings for a different refrigerator. We ate dinner at a different table; or rather, we started eating dinner at a table. Like other families. They cooked and kissed and laughed in a different kitchen. We watched movies on a different, bigger TV. They held each other on a different sofa. After a nightmare, I'd crawl into a bigger bed and flop down on top of their tangled forms, and soon I'd be nice and tangled too.

It was home.

I remember that on one of our "men only" outings, he'd turned to me almost tentatively. With an offhanded shrug, he'd mentioned that I could call him Dad, if I wanted.

I did. Soon enough, I'd forgotten that I ever called him anything else.

I remember plenty about my dad.

The wedding was huge, filled with a bunch of people I'd never met before; and yet, so many of them cried "look how tall you've gotten!". I was the ring bearer, and may I just say: I did a _phenomenal_ job. There's news camera footage that attests to it.

To this day, I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of love and respect for my mother when I remember her polite refusal of his last name, "because then who would share Peter's?"

I was furious that after the great ordeal it'd been to go that long in an itchy suit ("Real men wear bow ties, Peter" - "They just don't know how to tie them, apparently"), they were thanking me by going on a ten day vacation, without me. I was mollified by the knowledge that I'd be spending this time with Tall Lady; it was all one big party.

My parents returned and life went on. I still did my homework in the office after school (I was starting elementary now, may it be noted), I still listened to dad shout and mom laugh, though they had offices in different parts of the building now. Dad was on the road a lot for a few months there, and occasionally mom and I would go too. Each return was joyous one, and he'd hug us like it'd been years.

There was a big party a couple months later, and I danced with a woman who, at the time, was just another friend of mine. I didn't understand why it was such a big deal, but it was cool that our picture was in the paper. Her husband was supposedly pretty important too, but to me he'd just been a good sort of grandfather, with warm hugs and hidden candy and the coolest carpet in his office.

As I grew older, I learned more of the significance of these people I saw every day, my adopted family, of even my own parents' importance. But they'd been heroes before any of that, so it hardly changed anything.

It's one day, not long after my sixth birthday, that they tell me we've got something important to talk about. I fidgeted with the new Avengers set I'd gotten, not really listening, until I caught the word "brother". I looked up at them, wide eyed, and they looked back with anticipant smiles.

They knelt beside me, explaining to me that mom is going to have another baby, just like she had me, and yes, that's why her stomach's been getting bigger. It would be a few more months, and then I'd have a little brother, and won't that be great?

But by then I could hardly hear them, could hardly breathe, and I ran out of the house and out into the street before either of them could stop me. I heard them shout my name, I heard dad say that he'd go, that she shouldn't get up.

He found me on the sidewalk, running up behind me and scooping me into his arms. He carried me a little further down to a bench, and I attempted to beat him up the whole way there; unfortunately for me, there was a bit of a size disadvantage. Just like in his hugs, I was engulfed in big shoulders and arms and he just held me tightly as I beat my small fists against his chest. He sat us both down.

"Peter."

"Gahg!" I think a punch landed on his jaw, because he grabbed my hand.

"Peter, quit hitting me."

"Why!"

"I'll answer your question with one of my own."

He knew that I liked this. The exchange, the trade.

"What?"

"Why'd you run out of the house, kiddo?"

I don't answer, but bury my head in his neck in utter despair.

"Don't you want a little brother?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"He'll be yours!"

"He... What?"

I began to writhe once more with anguish, trying to convey my muddled thoughts. "He's yours, and you'll like him! You and mom. He'll be yours. He'll look like you, and he'll be yours, and you'll like him better than me, cuz I'm not!"

We sat in silence for a long time, and I cried softly into his shirt.

"Of course you're mine, Peter."

"But Dr. Freeride-"

"Your father doesn't mean anything to me. Other than that he's half of what made such a great kid like you, of course. You know I don't love you any less, Peter. You're mine and nothing else matters."

"But I'm not... We aren't re... rel..."

"Related?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, that's probably for the best. I am pretty lousy, you wouldn't want to be anything like _me_."

And that made me laugh. "Yuh-huh."

"We're family, okay? You're my son. And the fact that you're related to Dr. Freeride doesn't change that. I love you."

"I love you too, dad."

And that made him smile, and he gathered me up and headed to somewhere where we could buy a donut or something, calling mom on the way to tell her that we're okay.

Soon, I was excited by the prospect of a brother, and when I finally got to meet him, dad's guiding hand on my shoulder as I walked into the hospital room, I was utterly in awe.

He was so small.

I loved Noah immediately, and it was never an issue that we shared only one biological parent. I never thought of us as half-brothers, and that's never what we called each other. He was my little brother. Plain and simple.

On occasion, I'd find myself growing jealous of the way my adult pals, the people who'd raised me in earnest, fawned over him now. Particularly the way they told dad "he looks just like you!"

As he grew into something discernible, I envied the dimples, the brown curls. I told myself that I just looked more like my mother, pretended that our lineage was the same. I had her hair, her eyes. But there were certain things I couldn't explain away. I had nobody's square jaw, nobody's freckles; at least, nobody as far as I was concerned. I liked to think I had dad's nose. I didn't.

As much as I'd feared my parents playing favorites, they didn't. I remember nights of my mother battling Noah with puréed carrots, of dad sitting at the table with me and growing increasingly agitated as he attempted to help with my first grade social studies homework ("These aren't the basics, Donna! They're lies! Public school is brainwashing America's youth!")

I remember his borderline-over-the-top enthusiasm for my baseball "career", his pride in my good grades and rapidly expanding vocabulary.

Once, I'd been talking to my mother about why my allowance shouldn't be spent on nice things when other people didn't even have _food_, when she stopped what she was doing and looked down at me with the warmest smile. "You're just like him."

I felt a flash of indignation until I realized who she was talking about. I held my chin a little higher after that.

I remember how mom had always affectionately called us "her boys", all three of us. She still does.

There was one time that we'd all gotten sick at once, and she'd tended to us diligently, complaining to dad all the while that he was a "grown man" and acting like a baby. Take note of where I put the quotation marks. We made up for it the next week, however, when she caught the same bug. Dad hovered over her like the sweet, paranoid soul he is, and though I think we tried to help, we mostly just ended up watching movies with her.

I remember a day in the spring, when we were all out at that summer camp like place that my parents and their pals went to sometimes. Dad was in meetings most of the time, and mom was in a few, but we'd managed to get away and go walking for a little while.

Midway through our hike, Noah's two year old enthusiasm had faded and he required carrying; I scorned his babyish inferiority. By the end of the trail, however, I too was heavy on my feet, and Dad ended up struggling back with a boy over each shoulder. When mom had started laughing at him, he'd plopped us both back down and hoisted her up instead, a feat that seemed both miraculous and hilarious to us boys, especially as she yelled at him, trying and failing not to laugh. Noah and I each stole one of her shoes, and ran all the way back to the clearing where Tall Lady was sitting with Grandma Abbey. Laughing hysterically, they'd called their friends with the cameras over just in time for my parents to emerge from the woods.

Dad often complained that the administration took advantage of his "incredibly photogenic" family to create empathy for politicians, but I don't think he really minded. All of the pictures ended up on his desk.

The time came again for my parents to travel, and often we'd go with them, doing our homework on buses and playing tag with the tan children of the incredibly tall guy. Of course, at this point, I knew all about what this meant. That this man was a candidate for President. That my parents were making that happen. I tried to explain all this to Noah, being the older and wiser of us two, but I think all he got from it was the tall guy and his tan children and that "Daddy and I are very, very busy right now."

There was vast celebration and vast sadness that fall, and I'd never seen dad so broken as he'd been when Grandpa Leo died. He held very tightly to my mother most days, and it took a little while for him to laugh like normal again. Mom explained it to me with tears in her eyes; I wasn't the only one of us with a father I wasn't related to.

But things got better, and life went on. I spent my biggest stages of development in this administration, the one with my dad's office right next to the Oval, the one with mom's boss being another famous, beautiful blonde woman. In my opinion, though, she still couldn't hold a candle to my mother.

Noah, changing from toddler to child, began to spout off inane trivia, like mom. Dad and I smiled and rolled our eyes at each other. I had mom's build, slim and agile, whereas Noah was stocky, but he sure had her mind. Their dorky neurosis was altogether endearing.

I began to have more intellectual conversations with my parents as I grew older, trying not to take on dad's opinions for once, and he relished my criticism. He relished debate. My mother's input was practically indisputable, all statistics and humanity and but-you-haven't-thought-about-it-like-this, and I grew to understand how she'd kept him in check all those years. My voice swung between the two of them until it finally found a place of its own at the dinner table.

Reelection came and went, practically soaring by with the pitiful candidate the GOP had scraped up that year. Yeah, I was pretty informed on all that stuff by then. In my house, you had to be.

We grew. We changed. Noah became a pretty cool kid brother, even if he was dorky and far too charming. I liked being someone else's hero, after having so many of my own.

As adolescence hit me full on toward the end of that second term, I started to grow restless and agitated with my whip-smart parents and their unwavering passion. As someone who was trying to find my way in the world, the consistency of their harried idealism was almost irritating.

I turned sixteen, and dad didn't leave to campaign. He stayed with his guy, and we fought over the election that was happening in the meantime. When the party lost, my parents remained on as voices of the opposition. I think that only increased their fervor.

Dad and I began to fight in earnest. I acted out. I disobeyed. I disrespected. All the normal firstborn-coming-of-age things. Our loud male voices would disturb the whole house late into the night, and even my mother could only rarely solve our disputes. Noah, always mischievous, had become the good son.

I remember one fight, the worst one by far. God help me if I can remember what it was about. I yelled, he yelled back, it went on for hours. Eventually, he told me to do something. To go to my room, probably. I'd refused. He pointed out that he was my father, and I did what he told me to do. And in that moment, that spiteful split second, I'd yelled it: "_You're not my real father."_

And it'd sat there in the heaviest silence of my life, and I'll never forget the look on his face. On my mother's face. He left the house for a while, walking out the door without so much as looking at me, grabbing his keys on the way.

I sat up with my mother for a long time, talking softly and waiting for him to return. When I heard the door open, I stood stiffly in the kitchen. As he rounded the doorway, we looked at each other for a moment, silent. And then I hugged him.

I hugged him for a long time, my wiry arms tight around his neck, and I was crying for the first time in years. I was taller than him now, by about an inch, but I still felt like the six year old he'd chased down in the street and assured of his love.

We didn't fight much after that.

I remember bringing home my first girlfriend for dinner, the way dad and Noah had smirked at each other all night. Mom had whacked them both several times for muttered comments.

I remember how she'd stared in awe at my parents across the table, having been regaled with the tale of their history a week or two ago, as I was a lovesick teenager who'd wanted to share everything with her.

She'd smiled indulgently at my father, blurting "I think it's so sweet, the way you just adopted someone else's family."

Oh god. _Someone else's family. _She didn't understand.

I could see mom and Noah's eyes widen in alarm, but my father just gazed back amiably. "More like _they_ adopted _me_, really."

And my mother had grabbed his hand, and Noah spouted off something random to change the subject, and the whole affair was really only mildly excruciating. The girlfriend didn't last too long.

My father likes to think that he's taught Noah and I everything there is to know in the way of women.

_"I'm not sure if you all know this, but I'm incredibly charming."_

_"Ha, ha. To the Lyman hoes, maybe." _

_"Mom, what are hoes?" _

_"Garden tools, sweetie."_

_"Seeing as you married me, don't you think that's a little hypocritical?"_

_"Why does dad have hoes?"_

_"Hypocritical? What are you talking about?"_

_"I'm just saying..."_

_"Are you implying...?"_

_"You're a Lyman hoe."_

_"You are so lucky that you're cute."_

Now, I won't say that he's wrong. About the teaching us part, I mean, not the charming thing. Though, there are a number of women - Never mind.

I remember a lot about what he taught us.

I remember him kissing mom spontaneously, arguing good naturedly with her about nothing, making her laugh. I remember celebrating the most trivial anniversaries, my parents waltzing in our living room, the way he always brought her coffee, and always complained about it. I remember teasing and talking, I remember declarations of love over briefing memos, I remember the embarrassing moment when a friend came over to the house and realized that, yes, my parents were making out in the kitchen, they forget sometimes that other people exist. I remember the way he treated her like she was the only woman in the world.

His eyes still light up when she walks in the room.

I knew that having grown up with it, I would spend my life searching for a love like that; the two of them set the bar high.

I remember that the day I went off to college, it surprised me that he cried right along with my mother. At the same time, it didn't.

I remember that when I brought home my first republican girl, he'd muttered "just like your mother", and earned a thump on the back of his head.

I remember that Noah's boy-genius-ness wore him thin for a while, and I neglected to comment that he'd learned it all from his father. When he left home for Harvard, dad's empty nest syndrome entailed getting his best friend elected president and presiding as chief of staff one last time.

As he grew thinner and no more mild, his curls graying, as the smile lines around my mother's eyes and mouth multiplied, I remember them making a big show of looking in the mirror together and saying "Yeah. We do look pretty grand-parently. Don't you think, Peter? Don't you think we look like we'd make swell grandparents?"

I remember that my birth father never knew of the bundle of joy my wife and I named Jean ("No, she's most definitely not named after you, Tall Lady. Forgot you even had a name, quite frankly." - "You're worse than your father, you know that?"), I remember that I never thought to tell him.

I remember, not having to look back very far now, that Noah's career in social justice took off like a rocket. I remember that the first time he came to the White House as part of a delegation to argue a bill, dad gave him such a rough time that he nearly switched professions. "I still got it!" He'd whooped as he regaled the tale to us at the next family dinner, and mom had rolled her eyes and patted the glaring young lawyer's hand consolingly.

I remember that retirement didn't suit him in the slightest, so he took on a job as a professor. Mom went to a non-prof. Their love story wore on like the sea on the sand, and each day they only seemed to delight in each other more. After the two of us, the alone time was well deserved.

I remember that he'd been so reluctant, so gentle when he'd told me of Dr. Freeride's death. I'd merely shrugged it off. He'd been dead to me for a long time.

I remember that from age four onward, there was no indecision in my mind as to who I'd speak of when people asked about my father.

I'd like to amend my very first statement.

I remember a lot about my father.

I remember a lot about the man who raised me, who loved me, who loved my mother and my brother. The man that chose us even though we were "damaged goods", who took on the challenge with a smile, who was more than a little damaged himself. The man who taught me life lessons through example; who taught me loyalty, and passion, determination. The man who was smart enough to let my mother teach the rest.

I remember plenty about him.

And he's the only father worth remembering.


End file.
